


Be Seeing You

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - The Holiday (2006) Fusion, Christmas, Explicit Sexual Content, Good Omens RomCom Event, Goromcom, Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: “Fucking hell, is this the bloody house swap thing she was telling me about?”“Indeed.”“She said it was daft! Told me she didn’t understand why anyone would willingly give up their home to a stranger.”“She changed her mind, it seems. Look, if you’re going to piss on the doorstep, either dedicate yourself to it or come in. It’s freezing outside.”The man decides to come in.This is a supremely stupid idea, Aziraphale thinks.Workaholic bibliophile Aziraphale Fell makes an abrupt decision to forego London in favor of Tadfield for the holiday season. Mysterious Tadfield local Anthony Crowley abruptly interrupts his relative peace and quiet.A bottle of brandy. A cottage. A snowstorm. Two strangers.A Good Omens/The Holiday fusion, written for the Good Omens Romantic Comedy Event
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 277
Kudos: 321
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. left here to go through all the pieces

**Author's Note:**

> chapter beta by the fantastic dragon_with_a_teacup, without whom I would be lost
> 
> I have many, _many_ more people to thank, but I should probably save all the emotional gushing for when I finish this. for now, please enjoy the fruit of three months of labor. 
> 
> I'm (hopefully) going to be updating this fic once a week, apologies for vague WIP process this is literally the longest thing I've ever written. yeah, I'm definitely rambling now. 
> 
> also, suspension of disbelief regarding the very premise of house swapping is recommended. 
> 
> chapter 1 title from Grizzly Bear's Losing All Sense

Aziraphale receives a text that undoes all the emotional hard work of the past three years. It’s simple and short.

_ David and I are getting hitched in the spring! Wanted you to know <3 _

Aziraphale parses out meaning between the words. Getting hitched. What an atrociously American phrase; it makes getting married sound like an automotive endeavor—mechanical and methodical. There’s no romance in “getting hitched,” which is so like Iain that Aziraphale shouldn’t be surprised.

“Wanted you to know,” Aziraphale says aloud, repeating the offending words. “Yes, I wanted to let you know first hand that…”

That what?

That Aziraphale isn’t Iain’s first choice? That he isn’t anyone’s first choice? 

He thinks, masochistically, that this might be the worst thing to ever happen to him. It’s not, obviously, but it feels that way. There’s a long list of instances in his life that are much more emotionally damaging. He could list them all right now, should he so desire.

He doesn’t, though.

Self-flagellation isn’t his style, but he wishes it is because then it might be easier to understand the black hole of hurt and the simultaneous way he doesn’t feel all that sad at all.

He wants to want to be sad, wishes he felt the need to cry and bemoan something lost. He doesn’t, though.

Aziraphale stares at his phone for another moment before he has to set it down.

He wants a drink.

No, more than that, he wants a smoke.

He hasn’t smoked in five years, but he wants one desperately now. It would be just the right thing, both emotionally and aesthetically. Isn’t that how some people get over the end of a relationship? Sit forlornly on a front stoop and drag the hope into your lungs, exhale the lingering pain. He hasn’t smoked in five years and he won’t now. Won’t give in.

There’s a pack hidden in one of the stacks, he thinks. There might be one in the defunct register as well. He could pop down to the shop and grab a lighter, the cheapest one there is.

He wants a smoke. He wants a distraction. He wants a distraction that he doesn’t have to cultivate and overthink and obsess over, but that’s too tall of an order for his heart.

Three years and some change, and for what? To feel used and bruised by someone’s thankless handling of his heart?

Aziraphale wishes he’d yelled. Thinking everything over, he had no need to stay calm throughout the whole ordeal. Someone else, anyone with a sense of self-worth, would have screamed or thrown things about. That’s not Aziraphale’s style, though, is it? Why lose his voice over a broken heart? Why trash his home, the house of his work, over trust irreplaceably lost?

If anything, all Aziraphale feels is correct in his irritation for letting himself get too attached to someone who was unquestionably unworthy in hindsight. 

Instead, Aziraphale sighs and slumps into the armchair and wonders what the fuck he’s going to do.

Aziraphale doesn’t like asking questions. Doesn’t like being in the dark, either. He longs for the solid ground of self-assurance again.

There’s a knock on the bookshop door.

“We’re closed!” He doesn’t even need to try and sound normal: his voice is totally unaffected by the events of the last hour.

“Mr. Fell?”

Newton. Right. Aziraphale had been expecting him. He was meant to show up before his holiday, drop off some books picked up from an auction in Bath. Having an assistant for the store was nice, helped with the minutiae of bookkeeping and physical tasks Aziraphale himself couldn’t handle, but having Newt around also meant that Aziraphale could no longer keep the irregular bookshop hours he was used to. 

Aziraphale notices the way his limbs and joints ache when he finally stands up, wonders exactly how long he’s been sitting feeling sorry for himself.

Newton looks characteristically befuddled when Aziraphale finally opens the door. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Fell. Traffic was…” There’s a box in Newt’s arms and two at his feet, which immediately take Aziraphale’s attention. 

“Did you manage to snag the Thoreaus?” Aziraphale interrupts.

“I did, yeah.”

“For the price we wanted?”

“Even less. Something went wrong with their wi-fi and they couldn’t access the prices for an hour, so they started off lower than the started listing.”

Another good reason to keep Newton Pulsifer around. Everywhere the lad goes, technological maladies seem to follow. For technology-adverse Aziraphale, finding this out has been a gold mine of revelations.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale lifts the larger of the two boxes and hurries it inside. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Kneeling beside the hopeful treasure trove, Aziraphale opens the first box with eager yet reverent hurry. “Oh, gorgeous. Marvelous.” There is a loose glove in his vest pocket, and Aziraphale quickly covers his left hand. He holds up  _ Leaves of Grass _ , strokes the lettering on the spine briefly. “A treasure.”

“Er,” Aziraphale snaps his head up, looking at Newt’s slightly nervous expression. He has a tendency to look nervous if he doesn’t look confused, so this isn’t anything too out of the ordinary. “Are you alright, Mr. Fell?”

_ No, I am not. I have had my heart broken. I should probably be more upset than I am, which is making me probably even more upset just by overthinking. And now I am lovingly stroking a book and whispering words that I secretly wished had been said to me.  _

“I’m perfectly fine, Newton.” Aziraphale places the book gingerly back into the box. “It’s been a rough morning is all.” Aziraphale takes off the glove, worries the fabric between his fingers. He looks decisively down at the books. “I, er. Do you remember Iain?”

“The dealer with the Andersen copies?”

That’s how he and Aziraphale met. Aziraphale had heard through the grapevine of bookish types about a first edition manuscript of a collection of Andersen’s fairy tales. The network had led him to Iain. They’d fought, and then flirted, and then dated.

Well, Aziraphale  _ thought  _ they had dated.

“The very same.”

“What about him, then?” 

“He’s getting married.”

“Oh,” Newt says. He shuffles awkwardly on the opposite side of the Thoreaus. “Good...for him?”

Aziraphale has the scary urge to laugh, of all things. “For him, yes.”

“You dated him, didn’t you? A few years back?” Newt looks surprised at his own question, shocked at the intrusiveness of it. He looks too embarrassed to apologize for it. 

“You could say that.”

“Oh,” Newton says again, this time with a hint of well-intentioned pity, with just a tinge of not-quite-surprise. “I’m...sorry?”

“No need to be. He was an ass.”

“Oh,” Newt says for a third time.

Iain  _ was  _ an ass. He’d decided to sleep with someone else while spending alternate moments telling Aziraphale how much he meant to him. 

And what did that make Aziraphale? He took long lunches with the man every time he was in town. They still had drinks together, after they’d broken up. Every time Iain left, Aziraphale would spend days imagining a life where Iain hadn’t left him stranded with his own imagination.

“I think…” Aziraphale looks around. He forces himself to put the glove in his trouser pocket, wipes his hands on the wool. His fingers tapping on the cloth sound too loud in the awkward silence. “I think I’m going to take a holiday.”

Newt’s response is immediate this time, no room left for awkward silence. “What?”

“I’m going to close up the shop and take a holiday.”

“But you never go on holiday. Ever. I’ve worked with you for three years and you’ve never taken a day off. I mean,” Newt runs a hand through his messy hair. “You keep odd hours at the shop whenever I’m not around, which I guess accounts for some down time, but your down time is always spent researching or buying for the store. Which is still working. You’ve never taken a vacation.”

“I’m glad my free time has proven to be of such interest to you, Newton,” Aziraphale says, dry.

Newt doesn’t pick up on the teasing. “No, it’s not! I mean,” Newt sighs. “You don’t normally go on holiday is all I’m saying.”

“Well, you’re getting the next two weeks off. I’m going to as well.”

Indeed, Newt is getting the next two weeks off. Not to go anywhere, Aziraphale knows. Despite it being the Christmas season, Newt spends his holidays safely housed and suitably entertained in the comfort of his own flat. He might go over to his mother’s for Christmas dinner, but that would be the extent of his Christmas celebration. Nevertheless, despite knowing this, Aziraphale always gives him two weeks off for Christmas. Partly because the boy does actually work very hard, but also because it gives Aziraphale some time to... _ not  _ be around Newt as much. One does need a break from one’s coworkers, Aziraphale reasons.

“Where will you go?”

—

Aziraphale has absolutely no idea where he will go. 

He sends Newt home after they unpack the Thoreaus, with Christmas wishes and good tidings. Aziraphale spends a few hours too many inspecting the manuscripts, determining if he needs to do any maintenance on them. He makes three cups of tea and only drinks one of them. He rereads the same page of  _ Persuasion  _ before ordering sushi in.

He gets a text from Iain at 2am that simply reads  _ Hello? Did you get my message? I’ll be in town tomorrow if you want to congratulate me in person _ followed by an emoticon that Aziraphale’s ancient mobile doesn’t translate.

Aziraphale stares at the text again. 

He comes to a sudden realization that his life is ridiculous. Ridiculous enough for a novel, and not in the positive denotation of the word.

BISAC Categories:   
Fiction. Romance. Tragedy.    
Annotation:    
Aziraphale Fell has it all: the job, the flat, the life he’s always wanted. But he also has a problem—he’s in love with someone who doesn’t love him back. Will he spend his holiday season in the doldrums of unrequited love?   
Review Quotes:    
“Hilariously depressing.” — _ Kirkus Reviews _

“Bugger all,” he mutters. After he opens up a bottle of wine and foregoes any glassware, he sits at his ancient laptop, waits patiently as it takes ages to turn on, and opens up the internet explorer application.

The home page offers him a search bar associated with a website called Bing. Aziraphale has no opinion on which search engine is superior; he thinks the whole thing ridiculous, really. Into the box, Aziraphale types out

> _ Holiday getaways? _

The first result that pops up is a link to a top ten list of popular getaways for the 2019 holiday season. The first few destinations listed are islands.

“Bora Bora?”

Beaches, that might be nice. Sunshine and sand, all lovely, and all foreign to a Brit in winter.

On the flip side, that’s a transatlantic flight. With other people, and possibly loud children. 

The final nail in the coffin of that idea is the threat of sunburn and heat exhaustion.

“No, thank you.”

The list continues on to include Florida and Mexico, neither of which appeal to Aziraphale, seeing as they all include copious amounts of sunshine. He adjusts his search tactics.

> _ Holiday getaways for one? _

The first link that comes up is an article. “25 Solo Vacations For Women.” 

Aziraphale shrugs.

The list is set up in some sort of slideshow format, which Aziraphale thinks is overcomplicated. He’s sure of the article’s ineffectiveness when the first suggestion is America’s Massachusetts. 

“Definitely not.”

> _ Holidays in England? _

It is short notice, after all. Maybe if he found something closer to home.

All that turns up is a list of bank holidays for the 2019 year, which Aziraphale definitely doesn’t need a reminder of.

> _ Solo holiday in England? _

“Singles Holidays UK—Solo Holidays.”

“Well, that’s just grammatically confusing.”

His computer informs him that whatever site is hosting this list is not to be trusted, which is polite, if frustrating.

This is turning out to be a disaster, a complete failure of modern technology. 

Aziraphale is stubborn, though. He types in another query. 

> _ Holiday rentals in England? _

_ Airbnb  _ comes up as the first suggestion.

“What on earth?”

He clicks on the link.

The site is a hubbub of bright pictures of San Francisco rentals and snow-capped mountains housing small cottages. There is a banner for something called E _ xperiences _ , which looks like some sort of guided tour of breweries in Atlanta, Georgia. 

_ Where would you like to go?  _ the search box beckons.

Aziraphale looks around his flat for inspiration.

There’s a bookmarked copy of  _ Northanger Abbey  _ on the desk next to his computer. Bath. He could go to Bath. It’s during the off-season, so the town will be basically deserted. That thought makes Aziraphale a little sad, though. He turns his head. There’s the Fell family crest on the wall, which reminds Aziraphale of family tartans, which reminds him of Scotland. Scotland is a possibility. But the idea of a six-hour train journey to Dundee or an eight-hour journey to Aberdeen puts him off of that idea immediately.

Aziraphale turns his frown back to his computer screen.

Does he actually even want to go on holiday? At this point, it’s unclear.

Aziraphale looks in another direction for one more hint.

His degree is on the wall, shoddily framed, a little lopsided, definitely sun-bleached, but Aziraphale can just make out the words. His name, his graduation date, and Cambridge’s stamp of approval on his master’s thesis.

Cambridge is lovely in the winter. Aziraphale recalls cozy winters spent in his dormitory, mugs of cocoa, and books surrounding his jumper-clad person, successfully avoiding both family and peers.

He could visit, he supposes, if he wanted to run into any familiar faces, which he doesn’t.

Oxford, however.

Same vibes, different place, as the kids say. Kids said that, right? Aziraphale is halfway positive they did.

In the search box, Aziraphale types in _ Oxfordshire, England. _

Aziraphale spends the next hour opening up countless tabs on his browser, looking through an infinite display of photos ranging in quality, at flats and homes and cottages that also range in quality. Once he figures out how to set his search qualifications, he can finally narrow down his search results to  _ not  _ include dodgy rooms near the university’s campus. He looks at flats in downtown Oxford and homes belonging to traveling lecturers, but it’s a cottage in a village called Tadfield that catches Aziraphale’s eye. Jasmine Cottage.

It’s a two-storied, older-looking building. Well kept, evident from the photos that look like they were taken sometime in the summer. There’s a white picket-fence surrounding the property, a small garden to the left of the front door, and ivy covering the wood-paneling of the outside. Aziraphale is immediately enchanted as he clicks through the rest of the photos, which show off the property’s rooms in perfect lighting. It looks lived in judging by the tchotchkes and the cat that sits on the sofa in the picture of the family room.

It’s perfect, Aziraphale decides. 

The website prompts him to message the host concerning stay dates, and Aziraphale does so.

> _ Hello. I know this is very short notice, but I was wondering if there was any way I might rent out your property from tomorrow until the day after Christmas? That would be the 19th through the 25th. I absolutely adore your cottage, and would love to spend my holiday there. _

After the reply is sent, Aziraphle waits patiently for a minute. Then he waits impatiently for four more minutes. He goes to make a sobering cup of cocoa after that, and when he returns, he still doesn’t have an answer. He looks at his watch. Over a quarter past eleven in the evening. Aziraphale supposes that is  _ is  _ late. Maybe the host has gone to bed.

Aziraphale resolves to close his laptop and forget the whole matter when his computer chimes, and there’s a reply to his message.

> _ Hey! So sorry for the late reply. The property actually isn’t available for rent currently.   
> I could do house swap if you’d be interested? _

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at the message in concentration. He looks at the host icon. A candid photo of a brunette woman smiles back at him, with the name Anathema D. underneath it. She looks fairly trustworthy, if a little mystical. While rereading the message, Aziraphale tries to parse out its meaning through his tipsy haze. House swap? Is this a normal occurrence on rental sites?

Before he can craft a reply, another message from Anathema D. appears on the screen

> _ It’s a little uncommon for airbnb, so I’d understand if you’re ambivalent. We’d literally just swap houses for the duration of your stay here. I feel bad, since I didn’t mark my house as unavailable. I usually rent out the place during the summer months, when I’m in America. I understand if the swapping squicks you out a bit, it’s a little weird at first. _

Aziraphale appreciates the clarification. He finally manages to type out a reply before Anathema D. disappears.

> _ Actually, that sounds absolutely lovely! I must say that I’m entirely taken with your cottage, and was a little disappointed that it was unavailable.   
>  _ _ My life is in the middle of a total upheaval, and a house swap sounds like a bit of fun!  
>  _ _ I live in a bookshop, I should let you know. If that makes you wary of this exchange, I wouldn’t blame you _

Anathema's response is immediate

> _ YOU LIVE IN A BOOKSHOP??? _

Aziraphale laughs at the message, Anathema’s enthusiasm evident even through the screen. 

> _ Do you have any pictures??? _

In response, Aziraphale sends her a link to his Yelp page, bad reviews be damned. A few patrons had taken illicitly blurred photographs, but the general point comes across, Aziraphale hopes.

> _ Holy shit, that looks AMAZING! I would be honored to live in it for two weeks and watch over your sacred tomes. _

Aziraphale decides that he likes this girl.

> _ One last question then.  _

Aziraphale feels a little apprehensive as he types what he thinks is the most ridiculous question. 

> _ Tadfield.   
>  _ _ Any eligible bachelors? _

There are a few tense seconds where Anathema doesn't reply, but then...

> _ Zero. _

Aziraphale grins.

> _ I’ll be arriving tomorrow!   
>  _ _ Shall we trade cellular numbers for easier communication? _

Aziraphale gets a call on his cell a few minutes later. “This is Aziraphale.”

“Oh, my god. You sound  _ exactly  _ like how I imagined a bookseller named ‘Aziraphale Fell’ would sound like.”

Anathema is  _ very  _ American, from the sound of her voice, which surprises Aziraphale. She’d seemed up front and crass over her messages, so now it makes a bit more sense as to why. 

“And also a little bit like an Oxbridge professor, to be honest.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Not a professor, my dear. I am sorry if that’s a disappointment.”

“From the looks of your apartment, you could be a stuffy prof. Never seen so many books in my life, and that’s coming from a girl who studied classics. On purpose.” There’s a shuffling in the background. “You also don’t sound like a serial killer.”

“Do serial killers sound a particular way, Ms. Anathema?”

“God, just Anathema please. Ms. Anathema makes me sound ancient. And I probably watch too many true crime docs, because now all I can think about is how you’re probably a serial killer.”

“I can assure you—”

“See, that’s  _ exactly  _ what a serial killer would say! But,” the shuffling continues, “if my last days on this earth are to be spent in a serial killer’s kick ass library, then it’s whatever. I’m good.”

Aziraphale doesn’t really understand why, but he’s enchanted by Anathema. 

“Anyway, uh. I’m going to leave my key under my doormat. I’m also gonna tell my neighbors I’ve got a friend staying over so they shouldn’t bother you. They will tell me if you steal anything, though.”

“I’ll have a friend of mine meet you to let you into mine, if that’s alright?”

“Fine by me!” There’s a crash in the background now. “Damn. That's gonna stain. Listen, Mr. A, I gotta go finish cleaning up. Hope you have fun vacationing at my place! Text me your address!” With that, the line goes dead.

Aziraphale feels a little shell-shocked as he lowers his phone slowly. Anathema certainly sounds like a character; a force of nature. Aziraphale likes people who are forces of nature; they have good grasps on life, usually.

He looks at the photos of Jasmine Cottage one last time, then shuts his laptop resolutely. 


	2. falling down the stairs of your smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> against all the odds, this chapter is up when I wanted it to be! 
> 
> chapter title comes from The New Pornographers song of the same time.
> 
> beta read by dragon_with_a_teacup and madeofmydreams, who are delights and kept me sane throughout this process!
> 
> cw for drinking and initiating sex while being inebriated

Aziraphale sleeps for the entire drive from the Oxford station to Lower Tadfield. He usually wouldn’t feel inclined to—he abhors sleeping on any public transportation. Truth be told, he doesn’t mean to sleep at all, but circumstances seemingly worked against him. He’d been up most of the night after speaking to Anathema packing in preparation for his holiday and cleaning in preparation of Anathema. It resulted in a suitcase full of rumpled clothes and the dishwasher cleaning the last of his cutlery as Aziraphale rushed towards Leicester Square. A bundle of jumbled nerves on the tube and on the train, he’d barely managed to send Newt a text politely asking him to pass off a key to Anathema when she arrived later that afternoon. Through a series of question-mark laden texts on Newt’s front, Aziraphale had eventually gotten the message through the lad’s head. Aziraphale succumbed to exhaustion in the backseat of the hired car he’d booked to transport him to Jasmine Cottage.

He’s only a little startled when the driver politely and then not-so-politely clears his throat in an attempt to awaken him.

“We’ve arrived, sir.”

Aziraphale stares blearily out the window at the white landscape for a good half minute before realizing he needs to put on his glasses. The landscape doesn’t change at all, however. Aziraphale rolls down the window just to make sure, but, no—the driver is apparently dropping him off at an empty field.

“Are you sure this is correct?” Aziraphale asks, which is not what he wants to ask. What he especially wants to question is the new-fangled GPS software the driver relied on the entire route into the village.

“It’s as correct as I can get it. The address is a bit up the road, but there’s no way for me to turn around up ahead. Do you think you’ll be alright walking the rest of the way?”

Aziraphale meets the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, incredulous but unwilling to argue. 

Another minute after, Aziraphale is standing on the side of the road, carpetbag in hand, bundled in his thickest scarf and warmest cap and coat, and beginning to believe in bad omens.

He huffs out a visible breath, and then pulls the blue and cream tartan of his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose. “Well,” he says aloud to the snow banks and silence. “Tickety boo.”

No cars pass him by as he makes a precarious journey along the road, caked down with snow enough to form a solid layer of it. The emptiness of it validates the cab driver’s reluctance. Aziraphale is resolved to be irritated by any means necessary, however. This was _not_ how he wanted to start his week. The train ride into Oxfordshire has been predictably crowded and stressful, with train cars full of traveling families and train stations full of post-exams students in hungover hazes. And now, reduced to walking on a strange road in a strange town, Aziraphale is grateful there aren’t snooping townsfolk on their front stoops to ogle as he trudges towards Jasmine Cottage.

Speaking of, Aziraphale doesn’t have a clue where Jasmine Cottage was. The driver had said just a bit up the road, hadn’t he?

Further up ahead, he can see two figures walking leisurely towards him, possibly enjoying their existences and the weather.

Aziraphale sets his carpetbag on the driest patch of snow he can find, and debates hurling himself into the wettest one and considers resigning himself to holiday hypothermia instead the torture of asking for directions.

Lorene and Jonathan are wonderfully polite, which only makes things worse. They look pitifully at Aziraphale as he pleads with them for directions to Jasmine Cottage. Jonathan gestures animatedly as he gives Aziraphale a novel’s worth of walking directions. Lorene calmly tells him it really is just up the road and to the left. 

It’s all worth it, mostly, when Aziraphale finally sees the house for the first time in person. The pictures online were taken in the summer, so Aziraphale is enchanted by the snow gathering on the fence and the icicles dangling from the front stoop’s awning. Aziraphale sets down his bags and hangs onto the gate leading into the garden, allowing himself a whimsical moment of appreciation. The photos online didn’t do the place justice. Granted, the pictures had been taken in warmer climes, but they truly didn’t prepare Aziraphale fully for the sight that greets him. The roof and garden are artfully blanketed with snow, powdered sugar dust in dessert-heavy layers. 

The realization pokes at his memory, and he’s reminded that there are perishable groceries in one of his bags.

After a few minutes of fumbling around trying to find Anathema’s key (under the doormat, she’d said) and fidgeting with the lock (you have to twist it a few times, she’d said) Aziraphale stumbles over the threshold and into Anathema’s home.

A lot can be said about a person’s home. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then homes are the windows to personality. Aziraphale’s own home and workplace combo give a clear indication of who Aziraphale is as a person: a single bibliophile with an alarming collection of tea and wine.

Anathema, on the other hand, is most definitely a single American with an alarming obsession with the occult.

As Aziraphale moves inside and begins looking (definitely _not_ snooping) around Anathema’s home, this becomes all the clearer. The coat rack is designed to look like a deceased tree. Every outlet in the space has a converter on it to fit Anathema’s American gadgets. There isn’t a tea kettle anywhere in the kitchen. The Christmas tree, unlit in the corner of the sitting room, is bedecked in fake cobwebs and paper bats. When Aziraphale does plug it in, the string lights are all orange and purple.

His analysis of Anathema’s mystical nature was on the money, apparently.

Aziraphale continues his journey of not-snooping by putting away his perishables in Anathema’s fridge: cheese and meats and fruits and breads, a few wines that needed to be refrigerated and a few that didn’t. His food items are juxtaposed next to the jar of olive juice and the half-empty carton of eggs, which has a post-it note on it informing that the eggs were sourced from her neighbor and are free for him to use in loopy handwriting. 

Upstairs is next, to Anathema’s one bedroom, which Aziraphale assumes is his by proxy for the next week. It’s decidedly less occult in nature, save for the potpourri on the nightstand and a purple duvet covered in illustrations of black cats. The duvet is rumpled slightly, but considering the room smells overwhelmingly of clean linen, the bed was most likely made in a hurry. 

There’s another post-it stuck to one of the dressers by the bedside.

_Use the top two drawers!_

Aziraphale does, slowly unpacking his suitcase and fitting his weeks worth of clothing into the specified drawers. He’s charmed by the care Anathema took to make her home open to him at such a short notice, and he feels a little bad for not taking the same care.

Aziraphale does not snoop through the rest of Jasmine Cottage; he merely explores.

After pouring himself a large glass of wine— Chateau Latour— he peruses Anathema’s bookshelves: an anthology of Greek novels, multiple copies of Virgil’s _Aeneid_ , mythology compendiums that rival the bookshop’s collection. He remembers Anathema mentioning she studies classics at uni, and is pleased to see her collection well cared for.

Hours pass. 

Aziraphale skims through one of the anthologies. He fiddles with Anathema’s sound system, but isn’t impressed by her collection of pop-punk and Icelandic indie bands. He pours himself another glass of wine and eats a quickly-cooked dinner of carbonara, using the eggs Anathema left. While in the kitchen, Aziraphale realizes with horror that not only does Anathema not have a kettle, she also doesn’t have tea. Aziraphale looks out the window to assess the weather, and is disheartened to find the outside world very dark and very snowy, the precipitation not so heavy to make travel impossible, but enough to deter Aziraphale.

He falls into bed at nine exactly. He lies there for an indeterminable amount of time, but it’s most likely hours. He does not sleep. 

He feels very alone.

He thinks about Iain for all of three seconds before pushing him out of his mind.

> BISAC Categories:  
>  Fiction. Humor. Jokes.  
>  Annotation:  
>  Aziraphale Fell has made the irresponsible error of deciding to abandon his home during The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year. Will he ever realize that his life is a complete and utter joke, or will he be doomed to make incessant mistakes regarding his lack of well-being?  
>  Review Quotes:  
>  “Distressing, yet I couldn’t stop laughing.” — _Chicago Reader_

Aziraphale sighs, looking at the clock next to the bowl of potpourri. Almost one in the morning. After exiting the confines of Anathema’s cat-themed duvet, he pulls out his suitcase. “Stupid idea, what in heaven was I thinking?”

It had been a ridiculous idea to come here, and it was a ridiculous idea to stay. He’ll pack tonight and take the first train out of Oxford station tomorrow morning. He’ll politely ask Anathema to vacate the bookshop’s premises and get on with being holed up in London instead of being holed up in a backwater village in a stranger’s home.

What had he been thinking? Doing this?

Aziraphale is working himself up for a proper anxious frenzy when he hears a loud knock from downstairs.

Aziraphale pauses, arms full of half-folded clothes, listening. Maybe he misheard? He did have that wine earlier. Might have affected his sense of hearing a bit. Besides, who would be calling at one in the morning?

Another knock sounds, followed by a muffled voice that Aziraphale can’t make out from here.

He rushes downstairs before he has time to wonder if it’s a smart idea to answer the door this late at night. “Who is it?” he calls out, simultaneously pulling a cream jumper over his head in anticipation of the cold.

“’Zat you, Anathema?”

“Who is it?” Aziraphale repeats, irritated that whoever is on the other side of the door isn’t answering his very direct question.

“Anathema, fucking hell, if you don’t open the door, m’gonna piss all over your doorstep, and I don’t think—”

Aziraphale wrenches the door open.

The man on the doorstep looks just as surprised as Aziraphale feels. “You’re not Anathema.” He pauses. “Or, if you are, I’m much drunker than I realized.” 

“No, I’m afraid I’m not.” As if there is anything Aziraphale could do about not being anyone but himself.

However, it is quite _unlike_ Aziraphale to stare as much as he is currently.

The man on the doorstep, wrapped in a black peacoat and a red scarf and sporting a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses, is striking. Aziraphale isn’t prone to notice rudimentary things like a person’s looks, but it’s hard not to notice with this particular stranger. He’s extremely tall, extremely thin, and extremely handsome.

“Uh...” The man flicks his eyes up and down, taking in Aziraphale’s pajamas and wool-knit.“Is she here?” He leaning unsteadily against the door jamb, trying to pass off as more sober than he is, Aziraphale guesses. It’s not working.

“No, she is not. She’s in London.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “No, she isn’t.”

Aziraphale is immediately put off by the confrontational tone he’s taken. “Yes, she is.”

“She isn’t. Anathema would’ve told...” The man pauses. “Shit. I had a missed call from her yesterday.”

“As I said, she’s not here. She’s staying at my place in London, and I’m staying at hers.”

“Fucking hell, is this the bloody house swap thing she was telling me about?”

“Indeed.”

“She said it was daft! Told me she didn’t understand why anyone would willingly give up their home to a stranger.”

“She changed her mind, it seems. Look—” Aziraphale shivers, looking out past the odd man to see the wind is starting to move the snow around outside. “If you’re going to piss on the doorstop, either dedicate yourself to it or come in. It’s freezing outside.”

The man decides to come in.

This is a supremely stupid idea, Aziraphale thinks. He crosses his arms over himself, never taking his eyes off the man currently invading Aziraphale’s space. Well, Anathema’s space. Which is currently Aziraphale’s space. Sort of.

Aziraphale is embarrassed at himself for noticing, but he can’t help it. The man is aesthetically pleasing at worst, right gorgeous at best, and Aziraphale is stuck in the middle of those two realizations and feels utterly lost because of it. 

He’s ridiculously tall, there’s that. Long. Even with the heavy black peacoat and red tartan scarf, Aziraphale can tell he’s nothing but bones and sinew. The shock of red hair is just that, almost unnaturally ginger. Otherworldly. Aziraphale is even more embarrassed at himself for the flowery language his mind conjures as he stares at the gentleman.

No. Not a gentleman. He threatened to relieve himself on a doorstep, that’s not usually something gentlemen do. The stranger takes off his needless sunglasses, and Aziraphale forces himself not to comment on the uselessness of them in favor of meeting his eyes instead. 

“I’ll just, er...” He gestures to the loo in the corner. “Be right back.”

Aziraphale has to physically turn away so as to not ogle the man’s rear end as he walks away. He catches sight of himself in the mirror next to the doorway, irritated to find himself flushed slightly pink. “Ridiculous,” Aziraphale murmurs. “It’s been one day and you’re already randy for the first dishy person that waltzes by.”

Speaking of, he is going to have a serious chat with Anathema about this. “‘No men’ my arse. She’s going to get an earful.” She’s a liar of the dirtiest sort, and Aziraphale likes her a little less for it.

The muffled sounds of humming and handwashing bring Aziraphale back to the present, and faces the door as it opens to reveal the stranger once again. 

“Thanks for that.” He stops in front of Aziraphale. His words are still slurring, the sibilants growing long and pronounced without finesse, but it does nothing to deter the stranger’s captivating presence. Aziraphale is still a little tipsy himself, so he shouldn’t judge. “Should’ve introduced myself earlier. Not that it would have made this whole thing less embarrassing, but…” He clears his throat. “Crowley. Anthony Crowley, really, but I prefer just Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale offers. He notices Crowley’s twitching hand. Was he _really_ about to offer a handshake? They might as well be past that stage now. “How do you know Anathema?”

“Friends. Long time. And business partners, I guess. I don’t actually live in town, I own some land just north of here. She usually lets me kip on her couch when I over-indulge at the pub.”

“Polite of her.”

“Eh, she puts up with me.”

“Are you…” Aziraphale can’t believe he’s asking this. “Are you and her…” He lets the question hang awkwardly in the air, resolutely not finishing it.

Crowley grins, crosses his arms so his pose teasingly matches Aziraphale’s. “Yes?”

“Never mind. It’s not my business.” Aziraphale has to sit down. He collapses on Anathema’s sofa, hoping that his expression doesn’t match the fluster he’s experiencing. What the hell is he playing at? Asking a complete stranger his relationship status with a woman he’s never even met?

Sure, _sure_ , he’s bloody gorgeous. Aziraphale’s not desperate, though. It was only yesterday that he was still lovelorn over Iain. He shouldn’t even be _looking_ at another man. The whole point of this experiment was to clear his mind of any man-shaped being from intruding on his solitude. It’s not what he came here for, and it’s not what he’s going to start doing now.

“We’re not fucking, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That’s decidedly _not_ what I was going to say.”

“We’re also not together. Have to make that clear as well.”

“I really didn’t ask.”

“I am very gay.”

“Oh, good _Lord_.” Aziraphale chances a glance at Crowley. Still standing, still grinning wickedly. It’s a little infuriating how charming the whole situation is.

“No, Anathema is a saint. She’d hate me for saying it, but she is. She puts me up when I’m drunk and don’t find another lonesome man’s bed to fall into.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Falling into a lonesome man’s bed? Honestly, no. I just wanted to seem a bit more interesting.”

“That’s not—” Aziraphale groans. “I meant the getting drunk part.”

“I know. I just wanted to mess with you.”

Finally giving into some sort of sense, Aziraphale doesn’t reward the statement with a response.

It doesn’t stop Crowley from talking, however. “So.” He puts his hands in his pockets, smiles something more self-assured than his earlier nervousness would hint at. “House swap?”

“A rather daft idea, I’ll admit.” Aziraphale sighs. “I needed to get out of London for a spell, thought being alone out in the country would do me some good.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling Crowley this, why he’s opening up to a complete stranger at the witching hour on a Thursday. “Turns out it wasn’t the most well thought out plan I’ve ever had. In fact, I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Tadfield treat you that bad, eh?” Crowley takes off his coat, revealing a black wool jumper, and it seems a little forward to Aziraphale, but he doesn’t stop him. Crowley stalks forward, pitches until he’s slumped on the sofa next to Aziraphale. He throws his coat onto the floral armchair next to them. “It’s small, got very little on London, but it’s not all bad.”

“It’s not the town, no.” Aziraphale sighs again. He eyes Crowley for a moment, deciding. “Would you like a drink?”

“I think I’d better sober up, actually. It’s really not that long a walk to my place, I’d just rather not be totally pissed doing it.”

“How far do you live?”

“Five miles north? I think?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’ll stay here tonight.”

“You don’t know me!”

“Well, you don’t know me and you barged in here anyway.”

“I know Anathema!”

“I offered you a drink, will you take me up on it?”

“You’ll really let me kip on the sofa?”

“Of course.”

“She has some brandy in the cupboard next to the stove.”

Five minutes later, brandy in hand, Aziraphale wonders exactly what in heaven’s name is in Tadfield’s water. He’s not himself, which is probably what Iain would say could he see Aziraphale now.

_No. Enough of that._

“It’s not the town,” Aziraphale repeats. “In answer to your question. It’s not the town.”

While Crowley sips on his brandy, Aziraphale can’t help but notice the movement of his throat as he swallows. The brandy has _definitely_ been a bad idea, but it’s also helping convince Aziraphale of the opposite.

“But you’re going back to London tomorrow anyway?”

Aziraphale shakes himself internally. “Yes. I won’t put Anathema out, that’d be terribly rude. I’ve got...colleagues I could stay with.” They’re few and far between, and most of them don’t live in London, but Crowley doesn’t necessarily need that information. 

“You’ve got colleagues that’d let you stay over Christmas?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale wants to swear, loudly. “Christmas. Damn it.”

“D’you forget about it?”

“In a sense.” 

“Hard to ignore, though, innit? Bloody lights everywhere, and the crosses. And the pine. You know pine is a right bastard of a tree? It’ll naturally grow in only a very small portion of the UK, so we have to import it to meet bloody Christmas tree quotas. Quotas! There are quotas to meet for Christmas trees sold! And then those trees die off because of course they do, you’re mass producing trees for a capitalist profit. And then, and _then_ , most people are arseholes who don’t properly dispose of their trees after Christmas! Can’t be arsed to even make firewood out of them. Not that they’re any good at being firewood, pine doesn’t burn well at all, and the resin is a bitch to deal with. People just chuck them right in the rubbish, and off to a landfill, and then they fucking pollute the air. Air pollution. Bloody fucking mess. Fucking Christmas trees.”

“Plastic ones are no better,” Aziraphale adds quietly, realizing belatedly that he’s downed all of his brandy whilst Crowley was rambling.

“The _plastic_ ones are no better! And the plastic ornaments. And fucking tinsel! It’s just yards of plastic, and it sheds and leaves plastic all over the damn floor and _that_ eventually goes into a landfill and becomes air pollution. Christmas—” Crowley gulps down his brandy. “Christmas is awful. Hate it.”

Aziraphale doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. The combination of Crowley’s tirade and his irate expression is hilariously endearing. The totally unexpected soapbox tickles Aziraphale. “Do you hate Christmas all that much?”

The beleaguered sigh gives away Crowley’s answer before he even speaks. “I don’t, really.” Crowley shrugs. “It’s a materialistic capitalist nightmare, but it’s not all bad.” Crowley meets Aziraphale’s gaze. “Long story short, I don’t have a Christmas tree.”

The laugh Aziraphale lets out at that is unexpected, perhaps also brought on by the alcohol, but he can’t be bothered to care. Crowley looks pleased with himself for eliciting the reaction. 

“So.” Crowley pours them both another serving and a half. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“I am.”

“I’ll never see you again.”

“Oh, most likely.”

“Tell me what brought you here, then.”

A tense silence fills the air at that; Aziraphale fidgets with his glass. He takes a swig of his brandy.

“Come on,” Crowley wheedles. “You’ll never see me again. And isn’t there something a little bit sexy about emotionally opening up to a stranger?”

“Not in the slightest.” Aziraphale fastidiously looks everywhere except Crowley’s teasing expression. He notices a curve of something red and black peeking out of the neckline of Crowley’s jumper, inked onto his collarbone.

“I think there is.”

There is, actually, and Aziraphale doesn’t deny it a second time. He takes another, larger, sip of brandy. “Someone I...cared about is getting married.”

“Huh,” is all Crowley has to say to that.

“It’s complicated. We dated, and then he cheated on me, though he didn’t quite see it the same way. We’ve been close friends ever since. Well, perhaps not _that_ close. He told me he was getting married over text. I didn’t even know he was seeing someone seriously.” Aziraphale drinks an amount much larger than a sip, but it’s called for, he thinks. “I thought getting away would make me feel less lonely, less...unwanted. Of course, now that I’m actually here, by myself, I have never felt more alone. I didn’t think this through at all, which is quite unlike me. So, I’m going back to London tomorrow. I’ll put myself up in a hotel if I have to, but being cooped up, alone, here, is proving to be a bit much.” Meeting Crowley’s eyes for the first time since Aziraphale began telling his tale, he’s struck by the lack of pity in Crowley’s expression. He looks irritated. Peeved. Aziraphale can’t figure out why.

“You’re,” Crowley pauses, sets down his half empty glass onto the coffee table to the left of a coaster. “I won’t judge you too much for attempting to be friends with this guy, but he’s an asshole and you deserved better.”

No one has ever expressed it so succinctly to Aziraphale. Granted, he’s never explained the situation in such detail to anyone before. Crowley’s righteous anger being directed towards Iain, even more a stranger to Crowley than Aziraphale himself, makes Aziraphale feel better than he has in awhile.

“He’s a dick for cheating on you, because that’s just a dick thing to do, but he’s also stupid. You’re very interesting.”

“I bet you say that to all the local pub dandies.”

“There is a dearth of pub dandies in Tadfield, if’m being honest.” Crowley leans forward, which forces Aziraphale to focus on his eyes (bright amber, some sort of golden flower, sunset yellow in the right light. Aziraphale has to stop describing people so poetically, it’s another bad habit). “You’re really leaving tomorrow?”

“I really am.”

“Would it really be alright if I stay tonight, then?”

“Yes, of course. It’s late, and I don’t think you should be walking five miles in the middle of December.”

“I’m sorry about Iain, for what it’s worth.” Crowley says suddenly. “ But you’re better off. You deserved better than him anyway.”

“You don’t even know me.” A repetition of an earlier statement.

“You’re Aziraphale. You’re very well spoken, even while drunk. You’re very pretty.” The embarrassment must have finally caught up with Crowley, because he blushes at that. “Fuck it, whatever, yeah. You’re pretty. I’m drunk, I have no filter.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re that drunk.”

“I’m really not.” Crowley has not moved at all throughout this exchange, still incredibly close to Aziraphale’s face. “You’re pretty.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“It’s no problem.” Aziraphale knows he should probably move away, should distance himself from the humidity of Crowley’s breath against his lips. It’s not proper in any sense. He feels lithe and flowy with the lack of distance between them. It’s a little exhilarating, if terrifying. “We should probably sleep.”

Crowley nods in assent. “Good night, then.” As if on routine, as if they’ve done this a million times, as if they’ve had years to practice, Crowley kisses him. It’s chaste, hilariously so, considering the rush of lust that it sends through Aziraphale’s bloodstream. When Crowley pulls away after a few seconds, he doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. Only bemused, obviously not meaning to do that. “Sorry. Sweet dreams.”

Aziraphale breathes out a laugh. “Actually.” He pauses, deciding to throw sense completely out the window. “Do you think you could try that again?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows in response, but it’s apparently a positive sign. He leans forward again, tilts his head with this movement. Aziraphale notices how obscenely chapped Crowley’s lips are, the brandy and ale scent of him with something earthy underneath it all. Aziraphale keeps his eyes open, not for any particular reason, but he does notice the length of Crowley’s lashes well from this angle.

Crowley pulls away again. “Bad?”

He must be referring to Aziraphale’s lack of response.

“Weird,” Aziraphale answers.

They both lean back simultaneously to regard each other. 

“I don’t,” Aziraphale has to laugh again. “I don’t make a point of going around kissing strangers.”

“Really?” Crowley shrugs. “Not so bad, once you get used to it.”

Aziraphale decides to initiate on this go around. He leans forward, only just catching Crowley off guard. The breath-hitch and eye-flutter Aziraphale’s momentum elicits is gratifying, makes Aziraphale feel a little empowered. Something’s missing though.

He pulls away. Crowley has a lopsided, if confused, smile on his face. 

“Maybe if I shut my eyes?”

“You’ve had your eyes open?” Crowley leans forward conspiratorially. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little mental?”

“Oh, it’s nothing new.” 

Aziraphale closes his eyes, and intends to lean forward to capture Crowley’s mouth again, but Crowley halts the movement with his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. There are kisses pressed to each of Aziraphale’s closed eyelids, then one to each cheekbone. It’s quite sensual, Aziraphale has to admit. He can’t remember Iain—hell, _anyone_ —kissing him with this sort of on-purpose sensuality. Aziraphale unclenches his hands, which had previously been wringing nervously at his stomach, and places them on Crowley’s chest. In response, Crowley moves to kiss him again. Crowley lets out a sigh, which is the perfect invitation for Aziraphale’s tongue to begin an exploratory journey of Crowley’s mouth. This only makes Crowley gasp again, which then allows Aziraphale to explore further. It’s a gratuitous give and take, something innate that Aziraphale hasn’t had a chance to tap into for ages.

Aziraphale pulls away, takes immediate note of the pout he leaves behind on Crowley’s lips. “Given that I’m in the middle of a personal crisis, in a stranger’s home, kissing another total stranger, I’m going to propose something a little preposterous.”

“This hasn’t been preposterous enough?” When Crowley says _preposterous_ he sounds as if he’s adding a ridiculous posh infliction, making fun of Aziraphale’s inflection.

“Hush.” Aziraphale continues. “You’re ridiculously gorgeous and we’re both a little toshed, so I think we should have sex.”

Crowley regards him, more focused on this than he has been on anything since he showed up on the doorstep. “I think that’s a fantastic proposition.”

“If you want.”

“I’ve said yes already.”

“It’s only,” Aziraphale waves his hands nervously. “I’m being very serious, you know.”

“So am I.”

“I’ve never said anything like this in my life, you know. I’ve _never_ , that is, it’s not _proper_ —” Aziraphale interrupts himself to sigh agitatedly. “It’s almost hereditary for me to be proper, you know.”

Crowley grins. “I don’t, but I’d love for you to tell me more. Upstairs. Preferably naked, unless you’re not into that.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Shagging was _your_ idea, I’ll remind you.”

Aziraphale decides to kiss Crowley instead of answering him, and he finds himself increasingly fond of the surprised gasps Crowley lets out whenever he does. He hopes he’s not too tipsy to forget that little detail; it might be nice to employ it at a later hour. 

“People do this, right?” Aziraphale speaks through their kissing, barely noticing the way Crowley maneuvers him to straddle Crowley’s hips. “Go on holiday, vacation. Vacate their lives. Do something totally unexpected?”

“Or someone,” Crowley adds, mouthing his way down Aziraphale’s neck. It elicits a gasp of Aziraphale’s own, this time. 

“Oh, you devil,” Aziraphale gasps. “Demon.”

That makes Crowley laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

Aziraphale resolves to kiss the grin from Crowley’s lips. The earth-scent is stronger, tongue tasting it beneath the alcohol. Aziraphale already has an addictive-prone personality, finds it impossible to deny himself pleasures. And it’s been entirely too long since he’s let himself give into pleasures such as this

“Fuck.” Crowley pulls away. “You sure about this?”

“Extremely sure.” Aziraphale kisses him again. 

Aziraphale is discovering all sorts of new intricacies about himself tonight. Namely, that arguing with Crowley is immeasurably arousing. Aziraphale grinds his hips down to meet Crowley, pleased with the gasp that Crowley breathes out at the movement, significantly higher pitched than previous ones.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley moans, struggling to keep his eyes open as he pulls away. “Have I mentioned yet that I think you’re incredibly interesting?”

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale doesn’t know who this man is, the man he’s become tonight. He’s not even keeping his voice at a whisper, instead he’s talking seduction at normal volumes. His previous encounters had been quiet affairs, hushed and quick and fast. The late hour does nothing to lower Aziraphale’s inhibitions. He wants to pretend he’s good, that he’s worthy, and he wants to speak these thoughts into the universe at the highest decibels. “I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“I hardly think,” Crowley interrupts himself to kiss Aziraphale, run his cold fingertips underneath the cloth of Aziraphale’s jumper. Aziraphale intends to put those hands to good use later, but he’ll have to warm them up before that. Crowley is the one who shivers, and it gives a hitch to his voice that Aziraphale wants to replicate sooner rather than later. “You could do anything at this point to dis— to disp— to let me down.” He bites down on Aziraphale’s bottom lip, licks the bite immediately after. “Also, I promise I’m not drunk. You’re just very distracting.”

“Well, then.” Aziraphale gives Crowley one last kiss, as chaste as the first, and then extricates himself from Crowley’s lap. As he stands over Crowley, he lets his gaze linger, lets himself fully see the man before him. Crowley’s hair is half undone, mussed merely by their movement, so Aziraphale resolves to mess with it further later tonight. Wants to dig his fingers into the strands, has an inkling that Crowley would like it pulled. Crowley’s dark trousers are tight across his groin, arousal obvious, and Aziraphale wishes he had the sense to notice earlier, take full advantage. His eyes are uncovered, and Aziraphale finally has a comparison for them: yellowed pages from an illuminated manuscript, worn with age and adoration. 

Perhaps he’ll tell Crowley all of this later. He hopes he will.

Aziraphale picks up his glass of brandy as he makes his way to the stairs, takes a small fortifying sip before he sets it on a bookshelf. Crowley is staring at him when he turns around. “Shall we?”


	3. darling, you know that I am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the late upload, but only the slightest. life is crazy for everyone right now, huh?
> 
> beta read by [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams), who made sure my smut was believable and made it better, and by [dragon_with_a_teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup) who fixed my grammars and assures me that my writing is good. 
> 
> this chapter is allllll smut, and it was the first bit of smut I wrote ever ever ever.

_ Aziraphale picks up his glass of brandy as he makes his way to the stairs, takes a small fortifying sip before he sets it on a bookshelf. Crowley is staring at him when he turns around. “Shall we?” _

Crowley trips over himself in his hurry to get to Aziraphale. They’re kissing against the wall for a few seconds until Crowley pulls away. “Give me a mo?” he murmurs, before turning and running back towards his abandoned coat. He rummages in an inside pocket, grumbling and cursing when whatever he’s looking for seems to elude him. He grunts in triumph and is back to kissing Aziraphale in no time flat.

“What did you—” Aziraphale starts to ask until Crowley sheepishly holds up his left hand. Lube, travel-sized, and three condoms. Aziraphale wants to laugh but instead gives Crowley a teasingly reproachful look. “Menace.”

“Hey, at least I came prepared.” 

“You’re going to come prepared, alright.”

It might be impossible to tire of kissing Anthony Crowley, Aziraphale thinks. He does it so well. 

Crowley seems to remember that he has hands because he chooses then to put them to good use, using one to ruck up Aziraphale’s jumper while the other does a slow dive into Aziraphale’s pajama trousers. Aziraphale gasps at the first touch to his cock, somehow unaware of the intensity of his arousal up until this point. Crowley buries his face into Aziraphale’s neck, nipping at his pulse point. “Crow—  _ Anthony _ .” Aziraphale swears he feels Crowley grin at his reaction. “I’m not that old, but I’m not young, either. I don’t think we can properly have sex standing upright.”

When Crowley laughs, Aziraphale notices, intimately, the humidity and warmth of his breath, the spirant journey it takes towards his exposed collarbones. “Oh, you think you wouldn’t be able to fuck me against this wall? Because I have complete faith in you.”

Aziraphale is definitely blushing now, which is in direct contrast to how forward he was less than fifteen seconds ago. “Oh, am I…?” He lets the end of the question dissipate in the air, hoping Crowley picks up on the subtext.

He does, thankfully, because he pulls back to look at Aziraphale. “I mean...if you want to.”

“I rather think it’s if  _ you  _ want to!”

“Is this how it’s going to be? Us talking around each other all night? Because,” Crowley falls to his knees, which makes Aziraphale’s own weak at the motion. He has to lean against the wall behind him for support. “I wouldn’t mind. You’ve got a nice voice.” There’s apparently been enough time wasted, or maybe Crowley is getting impatient. Whatever the excuse, there’s a dichotomy in the rush he’s in to tear down Aziraphale’s pants and trousers and the tenderness he exhibits when he guides Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth.

“Shit,  _ shit _ .” It has been a very long time since anyone’s offered this to him, much less gone at it with such enthusiasm. Crowley hums delightedly at Aziraphale’s cursing, which makes Aziraphale tremble at the added vibration. “Good Lord, Crowley, your  _ mouth _ —” The velvet heat of Crowley’s tongue, swirling around the head of Aziraphale’s cock, is almost unbearable in its slow descent downward. Aziraphale decides to give in to his earlier want and threads his fingers through the raspberry stain that is Crowley’s hair. He was right; Crowley likes having it pulled. He gives another moan at Aziraphale’s first tug, and there is a rhythm to the glorious feedback loop they’re creating. The softness beneath his fingers should be an impossibility, and perhaps it’s something brought upon by eagerness or the advantage of brandy-ed drunkenness, but Aziraphale is past, well far beyond past, caring about or overthinking this.

Crowley pulls back. Aziraphale ignores the accidental whine he lets out at the loss of contact, pays no heed to his shivering at the obscenity of his cock falling out of Crowley’s mouth.

“You can”—oh,  _ God _ , his voice is so wrecked—“You can fuck me like this, if you want.”

Aziraphale’s mind whites out; a static connection. Anthony Crowley is officially the most mental man he’s ever met. Absolutely insane.

Absolutely wonderful.

“God, Anthony, just—” He pulls on the black wool of his jumper, hoping that Crowley takes the hint and kisses him soon. He’s smart as well as gorgeous, apparently; Crowley stands obediently, face flushed and grinning. Aziraphale cups his knife’s-edge jaw in his hands as he tastes himself on Crowley’s lips. “If I were ten years younger, with a better refractory period, I’d say yes in a heartbeat. As it is, I think I only have one in me tonight.”

“I intend to only have one in me—”

“If you finish that sentence, I will  _ absolutely  _ send you packing.”

When Crowley grins back at him, bright and shameless and infuriatingly hot, Aziraphale can’t help but grin in return. It’s never been like this, in Aziraphale’s memory. The teasing, the frivolous fun of it. He’s having  _ fun _ , laughing at the ridiculousness of the pair of them. 

He feels refreshed, in an odd way. Like newly reborn.

Better to be contemplative about it in the morning, though. Or preferably not at all contemplative.

“Upstairs?” Crowley offers, apparently giving in to Aziraphale’s refractory argument. For now, anyway. Aziraphale has an inkling that Crowley might put him to task soon.

In response, Aziraphale shucks off the lower layers of his clothing, pulls Crowley up the stairs by the hand. He risks his footing by looking back, finds that the grin hasn’t left Crowley’s face. 

There’s an awkward moment where Aziraphale realizes he’s left his suitcase open on the bed, half-full and abandoned due to Crowley’s sudden appearance. The two of them laugh as Aziraphale awkwardly sets it on the ground and Crowley haphazardly throws the unpacked clothes onto a chair, and then their supplies onto the bed. “Rude,” Aziraphale admonishes with no trace of irritation in his voice.

“You’re the one that pegged me for a menace.” The last word ends in a hiss as Aziraphale takes hold of the hair at Crowley’s nape, wrenching his head beautifully backwards. There’s now an expanse of neck for Aziraphale’s perusal. He wastes no time in seeing what kind of reaction he’ll receive from nipping at it. “Christ, Aziraphale,” Crowley pants. He pulls at Aziraphale’s jumper, the last piece of clothing left on him. 

“Hypocrite,” Aziraphale teases, pulling back to gesture at the clothes covering Crowley. It’s enough to send Crowley into action. He steps back, which gives Aziraphale time to compile a checklist of particularly arousing things pertaining to Anthony Crowley: the flush of his kiss-bitten neck, the mess of his hair after removing his jumper, the excited twitch of his cock when he notices Aziraphale staring once all of his clothing is gone.

There is a moment of hesitation, miniscule but meaningful, where Aziraphale’s hand stops at the hem of his own jumper. A split second of uncertainty. If Crowley takes note of it, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he replaces Aziraphale’s hands with his own, thumbs and fingers idling at the hem. “Can I…?” 

Aziraphale nods, perhaps a little too emphatically.

Crowley is then pulling Aziraphale’s jumper up and over his head, and back to plastering himself against Aziraphale in the next instant. “Bloody gorgeous,” he mumbles, voice almost deafening in the silent room. Crowley’s hands are everywhere, despite how impossible the notion of it is. Aziraphale can feel calluses on Crowley’s fingertips, moans when the rough touch catches at his waist, his stomach, his nipples.

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to beam into their kiss, suddenly full of self-confidence. Maneuvering blindly around the small room, the two of them fall haphazardly onto the mattress. Crowley moans happily while lying beneath Aziraphale. Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands grasping at his hips, pulls him selfishly closer. Maybe not that selfishly; the friction is mutually beneficial. Aziraphale feels younger and blithe, relishing in the reckless frottage of Crowley’s cock against his own. They haven’t stopped kissing all the while, which Aziraphale considers an amazing feat. He hasn’t snogged anyone, or been snogged by anyone, this thoroughly in what feels like an age.

“’Zira,” is all Crowley can manage to say in the breath-space between kisses. 

Aziraphale hums. “Yes?” he manages in an alternating space.

Crowley groans, bites at Aziraphale’s top lip, and digs his fingers deeper into Aziraphale’s skin. 

Aziraphale pulls away to admire the frustrated flush on Crowley, spreading slowly from his cheeks to his neck, to his chest. “Want me to get a wiggle on?”

This time, when Crowley groans, it’s decidedly less lust-filled. “Christ,  _ please  _ never say that again.” Crowley’s still hard, so Aziraphale surmises that he hasn’t completely lost his favor.

“Budge up,” Aziraphale says, allowing a hint of something resembling authoritativeness to bleed into it. Crowley moves immediately after Aziraphale sits up, scrambling backwards until his back hits the headboard. He watches intently as Aziraphale gathers the hastily discarded supplies from earlier, and Aziraphale knows Crowley’s watching because he’s constantly in Aziraphale’s periphery. It seems they’re both loath to let each other out of their respective sights. 

Aziraphale settles on his knees in the wanton spread of Crowley’s thighs; takes an indulgent moment to stare at Crowley’s lithe body. He’s almost unnaturally thin, especially in comparison to Aziraphale’s own form. Crowley rolls his hips, impatience evident both in the movement and in his stilted breathing.

“Something I can do for you?”

“You’re a fucking tease.”

Aziraphale decides to stop torturing the man. To be fair, Aziraphale is almost at his limit as well. There’s only so much staring and admiring Crowley he can stand, apparently. The fall of Crowley’s limbs in the lazy sprawl, putting himself on decadent display just for Aziraphale. The anticipation is going to be unbearable, but only just enough to be good.

“Be a dear, lift your hips?” Crowley obeys, and Aziraphale places a pillow underneath them. He holds the bottle of lube between them. “Would you rather prepare yourself, or should I—”

Crowley snatches the bottle before Aziraphale finishes the question. There’s little time wasted as Crowley pours a liberal amount onto his fingertips and hands the bottle back. Aziraphale watches, transfixed, as Crowley touches himself, teases at his rim before delving inward. There’s a roar in Aziraphale’s ears as he stares. Crowley is shameless, fucking into himself so slowly that Aziraphale wonders why he complained about teasing earlier. Crowley hisses as he pushes a second finger inside himself, and his movements gain a sense of urgency then. Good Lord, Aziraphale is just as shameless; he feels voyeuristic in his uninhibited viewing of Crowley’s ministrations. “Hey.” Aziraphale hears Crowley’s voice, distantly. His gaze snaps up to Crowley’s quirk of a smile. “Keep watching, by all means, but think about getting yourself prepped in the meantime?”

Aziraphale feels himself flushing, only slightly embarrassed at being caught. He strokes his own prick in unintentional time with Crowley’s thrusts, hates that he has to stop looking to roll the condom on. It’s a logical impossibility, but he’s never felt as aroused as he does in this moment, solid in his palm, admiring the shared solidity of Crowley’s arousal. Crowley is now fucking himself with three fingers, his hips twitching upward with each thrust. He’s staring at Aziraphale as he moves, gaze dancing from his eyes, to his lips, to his cock; in fact, there’s not a part of Aziraphale that Crowley doesn’t seem to be staring at. Aziraphale bites at his lower lip to keep himself from grinning, entirely unused to being admired so blatantly. “Gorgeous,” Crowley repeats, moving his gaze back to Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“I could say the same about you,” Aziraphale says, his reply unintentionally breathy.

“You could, or—” Crowley gasps in interruption as his fingers graze some inner portion of himself, causing his entire body to writhe arhythmically. “ Or you could utilize your time better and fuck me.”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to be told twice. He shuffles forward, reluctant to tear his eyes away from the slick slide of Crowley’s fingers as they slip out of his arse. Aziraphale has a moment where he desperately wants to lean down and tongue at Crowley’s opening, but there’s no  _ time _ . Aziraphale feels as if he will burst at any second, and if Crowley’s impatient whines are any indication, he’s in a similar state. 

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” Crowley repeats the mantra as Aziraphale finally, blissfully, slips inside him slowly, each additional syllable more desperate than the previous. Aziraphale waits, shaking and anticipatory, once he bottoms out. He feels on fire with the unyielding pressure of Crowley, of being inside of him. Forget the earlier alcohol, he’s drunk on the feeling of Crowley veritably surrounding him. 

Aziraphale leans forward and braces his forehead against Crowley’s. Humid breath shared intimately between them. There is gold flecked in the brown of Crowley’s irises, unnoticed until this moment. “Good?” Aziraphale asks, and means it in a multitude of ways.  _ Do you feel good? Do I feel good? Does this feel good? Am I treating you well?  _

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” and that’s a wonderful sound: Crowley, breathless, deliciously debauched. 

Aziraphale takes it as his cue to finally,  _ finally _ , move, and not slowly either. Aziraphale feels unnaturally greedy, for the friction, fueled by the frisson and the resulting gooseflesh. There are stunning staccato sounds from Crowley with each thrust, occlusive moans that only serve to spur Aziraphale faster, chasing his pleasure in a seemingly endless pursuance. 

“Christ, Aziraphale.” The words tumble and trip out of Crowley’s mouth. “You’re perfect,  _ God _ , you’re fucking perfect.” There’s movement in Aziraphale’s periphery; one of Crowley’s hands buries itself in Aziraphale’s curls while the other snakes down between their bodies to fist around Crowley’s erection. “You like this? Fucking me? I knew you wanted me.” Aziraphale should have known that Crowley’s lack of filter would extend to his filthy mouth. Aziraphale is intoxicated, beguiled by the dirty truths Crowley is unabashedly spewing. “Saw how those gorgeous eyes lit up when I got on my knees for you, moaned when I said you could fuck me.”

“ _ God _ ,” is all Aziraphale can manage, precipiced on the edge, moments away from toppling over. There’s an addictive agony in being close, so  _ close _ . “Can I…” He can’t even finish the question, hopes to God that Crowley is smart enough to garner his meaning.

“Come in me,” Crowley says, but there’s a plea that adds an indecent curve to the command.

“Fuck!” Aziraphale sounds loud, indecorously so, to his own ears, but it’s immediately forgotten when Crowley’s eyes widen at the sudden cursing. In the next moment, Aziraphale is coming. If he was on fire before, it is inconsequential compared to the inferno in his bloodstream now. On some inherent instinct, he reaches for the hand Crowley’s buried in his hair; holds on to him there as he shakes apart. Crowley is moving his hips of his own accord now, easing the aftershocks of Aziraphale’s orgasm, but taking his own pleasure simultaneously. Aziraphale realizes belatedly that he’s closed his eyes, entirely unintentional and unwanted. He opens them, doesn’t want to miss a moment of Crowley’s own undoing.

“Shit.” Crowley’s hand moves faster between them. His gaze seems to have never left Aziraphale’s face. “Stay in me, God, please?” Aziraphale feels clench around him, adding pressure to his already oversensitized cock. Aziraphale, to his own amazement, likes it. 

Aziraphale nods, gives one last thrust, and Crowley is finally there.

“Oh,  _ God _ . There, there, I’m—” There is an intimate gratification in watching Crowley come undone, knowing that Aziraphale had some small part in his pleasure. Crowley is comparatively quiet during his own peak, save for one high-pitched whine that has Aziraphale beaming. Crowley’s whole body is taut as he comes, and he melts into the aftermath, a settling of stormy waters.

Crowley opens his eyes, returns Aziraphale’s smile. They both seem content to stare at each other for the time being, and it makes Aziraphale feel very young. It’s reminiscent of his younger years with secretly sought-after meetings and stolen-time liaisons. It feels illicit, this hard, fast fuck; Aziraphale doesn’t quite know how else to describe it, because that’s exactly what it feels like.

Regretfully, Aziraphale pulls out; he’d rather like to go again (and again and again and  _ again)  _ but his body isn’t keen on cooperating with that line of want. He feels rather than hears the hiss that Crowley gives in response to the movement, and definitely wants to elicit that reaction again. 

“That was—” Crowley lets out a breath, looking like he’s struggling with sentence structure.

“It was that, yes.” Aziraphale is suffering the same fate, it seems. 

Crowley moves his hand from Aziraphale’s hair to cup the back of his neck, kisses him tenderly, like the first one they shared—good Lord, thirty minutes ago? If that. Aziraphale thinks he’ll be embarrassed tomorrow at how utterly promiscuous he’s been, sleeping with a man he’s known for all of an hour. Immediately after that revelation, Aziraphale decides that’s bollocks and he won’t be shaming himself for anything at the moment, thank you very much. Life is too short to not enjoy one’s equal share of vices and virtues and the gray matter in between all of it.

“Brilliant,” Crowley seems to decide, the answer mumbled against Aziraphale’s lips. “Tha’ was brilliant.”

Aziraphale kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth, thinking of something, anything, to say. There’s a downward spiral of thoughts and worries threatening to spill over. Aziraphale won’t let them overtake him, not now. He swallows down questions and pushes thoughts of tomorrow out of his brain. He’s grateful for Crowley’s rumble of a voice breaking through his reverie. 

“Gimme,” Crowley yawns. “Gimme ten minutes and I’ll be ready to go again, if you want.”

_ If I want,  _ Aziraphale thinks.  _ Hilarious. It’s terrifying how much I want you again and again and again. _

Crowley yawns again as Aziraphale collapses next to him, angled advantageously to see Crowley’s profile. “I’ll eat my hat if you’re not asleep in five minutes,” Aziraphale teases.

“Shaddup,” is Crowley’s surly response, punctuated by a third yawn. “Prepare to eat yarn, ’Ziraphale.”

Crowley is asleep in the next moment, curled into Aziraphale’s chest and breathing heavily.

Aziraphale looks down at Crowley, and then up at the ceiling.

> BISAC Categories:   
>  Fiction. Erotica. LGBT. Gay.   
>  Annotation:    
>  And there was only one bed...   
>  Review Quotes:    
>  “Well, fuck me sideways.” shygirl77 from Shameless Sins Reviews

There’s a smile on Aziraphale’s face and a curling in his insides. When he looks back down, he can’t stop looking at the top of Crowley’s head, the mussed red curls slightly dampened with sweat. The earth-scent of him is stronger now, here. Aziraphale wishes that he had a way to bottle up the essence and wear it always. It’s intoxicating. Crowley is intoxicating. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s come over himself.


	4. I'm never good at stuff that I'm not quite in control of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale blinks an eye open, glaring blearily at his surroundings, and wonders for a moment why he’s in a witch’s bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, hello there.
> 
> it's been a bit, hasn't it? <3
> 
> I'm behind (VERY behind) on answering comments, but know that I've seen them all and adore every one of you so much!!!
> 
> beta, as always, by the incomparable dragon_with_a_teacup
> 
> chapter title comes from Your Smith's Man of Weakness

Aziraphale is cursed with a perfect circadian rhythm. He wakes up at precisely 7:07 a.m. every single morning, regardless of how late he stays up the previous night. Aziraphale is also cursed with a penchant for insomnia. There isn’t an evening spent in Aziraphale’s flat that doesn’t consist of a mug of cocoa and a book, and it inevitably results in a caffeine-fueled reading fest in which Aziraphale finds he cannot put whatever novel he’s reading down without finishing it. He compensates for this by forcing himself to go back to sleep on the mornings he doesn’t have to force himself out of bed.

This particular morning in December is, unfortunately, not one of those mornings.

Aziraphale blinks an eye open, glaring blearily at his surroundings, and wonders for a moment why he’s in a witch’s bedroom.

There’s a glass bowl on the bedside table full of dried rosemary sprigs and orange peels. A fluorite figurine of a skull is settled next to it, staring back at Aziraphale in equally bleary judgment. There's some sort of indecisively metal instrument that _could_ be medical looming ominously.

There’s a soft grunt at Aziraphale’s back, accompanied by a rush of warm air on the back of his neck, and that is how Aziraphale realizes there’s an arm wrapped around him.

Did he sleep with the witch last night? What a horrific thought.

Trying not to disturb the arm—the arm is cold, but the proximity is giving the illusion of warmth—Aziraphale looks over his shoulder to identify his sexual liaison partner.

With one look at Crowley’s sleepfully peaceful face, it all comes rushing back to him.

Memories of whiskey and kisses and Crowley with his legs spread in a decadent sprawl. There’s a twinge in Aziraphale’s thighs serving as a reminder for their...tryst, Aziraphale thinks tactfully.

Aziraphale looks back at the ceiling. He has no idea what on earth he’s supposed to do now.

There are processes and patterns for one night stands. sometimes, it is customary for the host to provide breakfast for the...

Aziraphale, dutifully and with no small amount of chagrin, does _not_ think the word “fuck-buddy.”

Coffee. Aziraphale can provide coffee. There was an alarming amount in the cabinet; he remembered seeing it yesterday. Even if Crowley doesn’t drink coffee—

Crowley snores, a shocking sound that is startlingly reminiscent of a dying animal.

That man _definitely_ drinks coffee. Aziraphale is sure of it.

As quietly as he can, Aziraphale extricates himself from the bed, wraps himself in his dressing gown (thankfully on top of the pile of clothes Crowley had thrown on the floor last night), and sneaks downstairs. Because he’s unused to the stairs in Anathema’s cottage, he steps on every squeaky step on his way down, the floorboards betraying him in his best attempt at subterfuge.

Aziraphale stops in the lounge en route to the kitchen, sees the reminders of his and Crowley’s night: Crowley’s empty glass and the sunlight catching on the lip stain on the rim, his trousers and pants in an undignified heap on the floor, Crowley's coat gathering wrinkles in its pile on the sofa.

The visual imagery of what was, Aziraphale is sure, a mistake.

But what a fantastic mistake it had been. Sensual and sensational and...hot.

It had been _hot_.

Aziraphale had never described any scenario involving himself—scratch that, he’d never described _anything_ as hot in his entire life. How things do change when one uproots oneself unexpectedly.

BISAC Categories: Self-help / Personal Growth / General

Annotation: How To Succeed In Fucking A Stranger Without Really Trying

Review Quotes: “Painful. Beautiful. Sarcastic. I couldn't put it down despite _really_ wanting to.” — _New York Times Book Review_

As Aziraphale attempts to navigate Anathema’s kitchen, he resolutely refuses to admit he’s failing miserably at it. It’s been a while since he’s worked a coffee pot, sure, but the machine should not be causing him as many problems as it is. The lights are on and nobody is home, as the saying goes. No, really, the lights on the machine aren’t coming on at all. Surely there must be some sort of notification or sign that this machine is working?

Aziraphale continues to push buttons randomly, and with no small amount of force, when he hears a soft, muffled laugh from behind him.

He whirls around, startled less by Crowley’s sudden appearance and mortified that he’d been caught cursing under his breath at an inanimate object. If he at all wanted to appear as normal as possible, this was not the way to go about it.

“Morning, sunshine.” Crowley raises an eyebrow as he leans against Anathema’s kitchen table. “Not a morning person, then?”

Aziraphale sighs and ignores both the soft expression and the lurch of his heart at it. “On the contrary. I love the morning. It’s just...” He gestures behind him at the offending contraption. “Coffee. I can’t figure out how to get it to turn on.”

Crowley leans so he can glance behind Aziraphale, and his jumper rides up just enough that Aziraphale catches a glimpse of the skin of Crowley’s waist, a hint of his ribcage. It shouldn’t make Aziraphale feel flustered—he’d seen the man in naught but nothing last night, and in various...compromising positions. He’s more than a little irritated at how affected he is by the incidental show of skin.

“Might help if the machine was plugged in.”

What?

Oh. Right. Coffee.

Aziraphale turns around to hide his embarrassed flush and notices that Crowley’s right; the plug and cord are lying lazily on the counter, teasing Aziraphale for his inattentiveness. The smell of brewing coffee fills the air immediately after, another jab.

“I meant to have it ready before you woke. Apologies,” Aziraphale says when he finally turns around, ignores Crowley’s grown grin.

Crowley shakes his head. “Nice, but you didn’t have to.”

“And I didn’t, I guess. Ah...” Aziraphale falters, nervous. He wants to wring his hands. No, actually what he wants is to be back in his home, alone with his thoughts of Crowley and not dealing with the awkward and hellish encounter they’re both trying to survive currently. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the mugs are?”

In quick steps across the kitchen, Crowley is very suddenly in front of him, close enough that Aziraphale can tell Crowley smells of menthol mouthwash. Close enough that Aziraphale can see his golden irises more clearly in the daylight, and how they’re even more beautiful. Crowley reaches out, his forearms brushing against Aziraphale’s shoulder, warmth evident despite layers of wool and cotton—how on earth is he so _warm_? When Crowley moves back, he’s holding two mugs by their handles, porcelain dangling precariously from his fingers. “Yep.”

Aziraphale sighs and takes one of the mugs proferred. “I’m not usually this much of a disaster.” It’s true. Some of the time. Aziraphale prides himself on being level-headed at the best of times. He needs to be. His survival of his world relies on logistics and calm and keeping things buttoned up.

Last night had totally and completely upended that.

“You’re not a disaster at all.” Crowley has filled up his mug in the time Aziraphale has taken to have a miniature breakdown. He’s seated at the kitchen table, smirk hidden as he sips loudly. “You’ve had an intense few days. Your romantic life has been upended by an arse. And then you decided to fuck a stranger. That’s not the signs of a disaster, that’s just normal coping behavior in my book.”

Aziraphale stares. He pours himself a cup of coffee. He sits down across from Crowley. He takes a loud sip.

He hates coffee, but it’s necessary.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale finally says. “No one’s ever...” summarized his life so succinctly, is what Aziraphale thinks. Instead, all he says is “Thank you,” again.

Crowley shrugs. “So.” His fingers flex on the mug. Aziraphale can’t stop staring at them. “You still leaving today?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Unwilling to give Tadfield the old college try?”

“I think...” Aziraphale actually isn’t sure why he needs to go back. “I think I just need to be in London. It was a mistake to come here, and I need to rectify it.”

Aziraphale regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken. A flash fire of hurt rages across Crowley’s features, and even though it’s brief, the smolders and burns left behind are evident in his irises. “I get it.”

There’s a phone buzzing on the table next to Aziraphale’s elbow. He picks it up on instinct before realizing it’s much too posh and new to be his own. “Adam,” he says, reading off the screen. He holds it out to Crowley. “Sorry. Apologies. Didn’t mean to look.”

Crowley takes his phone, silences it after staring at the screen for a few moments. He puts it in his jeans' back pocket. “Eh, I’ll call him back.”

There’s an unfamiliar fluttering in Aziraphale’s chest, and he has a feeling that it’s not a positive motion. Aziraphale proceeds to overthink things.

_Who’s Adam?_

_Why is he calling Crowley?_

_Why do I care?_

_Is he really getting booty calls this early in the morning?_

_Did I really just think the phrase ‘booty calls’?_

_Good Lord, was that Crowley’s boyfriend? Or his husband?_

_Oh, God, I’m a drunken fling for a complete stranger who’s married, how on earth—_

“What time were you planning on leaving?”

Aziraphale blinks, staring uncomprehendingly as his mental tirade skids to a halt. “What?”

“Last night, you said you were heading back to London. You still leaving?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale actually has no idea, but he answers automatically. “Yes. I was going to call for a taxi first thing. There’s a train leaving the station at nine that I’m wanting to make.”

“Call for a—” Crowley chuckles. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Calling for a taxi my arse, this isn’t London. They won’t arrive until midnight if you don’t call for them in advance.”

Aziraphale flushes, embarrassed. He’s so used to having amenities at his fingertips. Spoiled, he is. He hands over his phone to Crowley.

Crowley looks at it. “Aziraphale?”

“Hm?”

“This is a flip phone.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Why do you own a flip phone circa 2006 in the year 2019?”

Aziraphale sits primly in his seat, back straightening in defiance.

“It’s practical!”

Crowley shakes his head but doesn't stop fiddling with the device. “I’m calling in a favor for you. Got a friend...well, someone I know, will take you to the station. Whenever you’re ready—" He grabs his phone with his other hand, eyes moving back and forth as he copies a number from his contacts and into Aziraphale's, and hands it back. “Call that number. Name’s Shadwell. He’s bonkers but he’ll get you to the station in time. The likelihood of getting a taxi or an uber out here is slim to none, he’s your best bet.”

There’s a new contact in his phone that indicates Crowley is in earnest.

Crowley is staring when Aziraphale finally looks up. He’s been going through a mental list of things to accomplish before he calls Crowley’s mysterious acquaintance—pack, gather his food, clean Anathema’s sheets, purge the space of any indication that he’d been present, forget anything of the previous night—and forgets all of it when he catches Crowley’s gaze.

“I, uh, er...” Crowley clears his throat. “I could. I could also give you...my number.”

Aziraphale is confused. “Why would you want to do that?” he asks on instinct, regrets both his tone and the words.

Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale has known him for less than a day but he can tell the sound is hollow, an empty room of a laugh in a once-vibrant house. “Stupid, I know.”

“It’s needless. We hardly know each other!”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

Aziraphale blushes; he tries to hide the flush behind a mug of coffee, but it’s evident from Crowley’s smirk that it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“But...what if I wanted to call you?” Crowley asks, fiddling with his empty mug. His eyes dart around the room and at Aziraphale. He’s nervous, Aziraphale realizes. Why is a mystery.

Crowley shakes his head, apparently shakes the notion from his mind with it. “Again, stupid. I’ll leave you to pack and...yeah.” He stands, coffee half drunk. Aziraphale stands as well, shuffles awkwardly as Crowley wraps himself up in his hastily discarded layers from last night. He has to walk around the room to grab them all, giving Aziraphale an uninhibited view of the way Crowley moves when he thinks no one is watching. He still slinks, as if in performance on a seedy stage, but it’s simultaneously softer in the morning light. He trips on the rug as he reaches for his scarf. As he wraps the fabric around his neck, signaling the end of their encounter, he sighs. He doesn’t face Aziraphale as he speaks. “If you change your mind...if you decide not to kip on an uncomfortable hotel bed and stay here instead...I’ll be at the pub tonight. You know. If you want to.”

“I don’t...I don’t think that will happen, my dear boy. But I appreciate the invitation.”

Crowley nods, resigned. There may be a hint of disappointment, but perhaps Aziraphale is projecting. Crowley heads for the door, opens it. He turns to Aziraphale before stepping out. “That bloke of yours, the one who broke your heart? He’s an idiot. I don’t know why he ever let you go or why he hurt you the way he did.” And with that last amazing, unexpected sentiment, Crowley is gone.

Aziraphale slowly sinks to the floor, sliding along the wall and feeling his age with the motion. He stares at the closed door. “Shit.”

## \--

It takes Aziraphale a few hours to pack. Partially due to the folding and refolding of his clothes and the meticulous rearrangement of his food, partially because he has to stop every few moments and think, just think, of everything that happened last night.

One look at the coffee table and he remembers Crowley’s unexpected kiss. One glance and the sheets in the dryer and he remembers Crowley’s orgasm, Crowley’s voice screaming his name. Before taking a shower, Aziraphale glances at his neck in the mirror and sees the reminder of Crowley’s teeth and the indentations they made, the marking of him. The smell and sweat of the encounter wash off easily, but the memories stay, a guest in Aziraphale's mind. His thoughts flicker in flashes of the encounter, and land on Crowley's sad smile before he left. Aziraphale wonders what, exactly, that smile had meant.

"Stop that," Aziraphale says to the water flowing down the drain, willing his needless and needy thoughts to do the same.

It's late afternoon by the time Aziraphale is done packing. He's wasted enough of the day puttering around, going over Crowley's invitation in his head despite knowing, firmly, that he won't take him up on it.

He doesn't need to invade Crowley's life. The man probably only asked to be polite. Aziraphale will stay at a hotel near Marylebone station and spend Christmas in London, by himself. A tourist in his own city. It's a sporting plan.

He looks at the contact in his phone that Crowley added. _Shadwell_. The phone rings twice before a gruff Scottish voice answers.

"Aye?"

"Ah, hello. Is this...Shadwell?"

“Yer Crowley’s fella?”

“Well, I’m—"

“And yer at the witch’s den of impiety?”

“I’m—"

“Be right over,” The man—supposedly Shadwell—says gruffly before the line goes dead.

After staring at his phone in shock for a few moments, wondering what kind of company Crowley kept in his day to day life, Aziraphale gets to work on gathering his belongings into a smart pile and wrapping himself in protective layers.

When is he not covered in protective layers, really?

Shadwell is...odd. And quiet save for some unintelligible muttering. But he gathers Aziraphale's luggage into the boot and drives safely to Oxford's train station.

Aziraphale checks the paper train schedule he'd nabbed yesterday to double- and triple-check the time. He counts out his pounds to make sure he has enough money for a ticket from the kiosk. He looks out the window at the snow-covered landscape.

He thinks about Crowley. He shouldn't. They'd slept together, they'd parted ways. There wasn't any more to their arrangement.

He thinks about Crowley sprawled on Anathema's couch, brandy in hand. He thinks about kissing him on the stairs, towering over him for a small moment and reveling in the height he'd gained. He thinks about Crowley on his back, how they'd stared at each other while Aziraphale had—

Aziraphale covers his face. His cheeks are warm with remembrance and excitement at how unembarrassed he feels. There is no shame in last night. Last night had been good. One of the better nights in memory.

Why, exactly, is Aziraphale leaving again?

"Shadwell?" Aziraphale says suddenly. "How...how much will I owe you for this ride? I want to make sure i have enough money to pay you."

"Don't be daft. Crowley took care of it. Called in a favor, thought I'd a mind to tell him off for—"

Aziraphale has stopped listening. Crowley had taken care of the ride.

"I'm terribly sorry, Shadwell. I do believe I've changed my mind."

## \--

He almost loses his nerve five times in the ten minutes spent waiting for Crowley to walk into the pub, called simply _Tracy's_. Ridiculous reasonings fill his head, an endless list of excuses for why this is a terrible idea. Or at least a not very well-thought-out plan. Aziraphale is becoming alarmingly proficient at them. Maybe Crowley decided not to go out tonight. Maybe Crowley made other plans. Maybe Crowley forgot that he asked Aziraphale to look him up if he decided not to leave. The neurotic musings are limitless.

Aziraphale puts down his empty glass, alarmed at himself for drinking it so quickly. This is a bad idea. Terribly presumptuous, which, he supposes, is another quality becoming increasingly good at.

Aziraphale looks around for the umpteenth time at the purveyors of Tracy's. They are Tadfield’s denizens, and it’s a surprisingly diverse mix. There’s a table of morose old men in the corner, on their third pint since Aziraphale arrived. What looks to be a pair of couples on a double date is seated at one of the booths, laughing loudly; all three of them have a different cocktail in front of them save for one, who’s sipping on a glass of water. At the bar, there are two women arguing over whatever football match is happening on the telly and looking quite pleased to be in such a fuss over it. There’s a middle-aged dad-type surrounded by heaps of shopping bags, looking at a legal pad; every once in a while, he looks inside one of the sacks, then checks something off of his list. There’s a group of students studying silently in another booth, piles of ancient tomes surrounding them; they’re all sharing a singular, rather large platter of chips in the center of the table, have probably been picking at it for hours.

The barman, a young woman with half of her hair shorn, makes eye contact with Aziraphale as he looks around. She raises her eyebrows. Aziraphale looks to his empty glass, and then back to her. He nods. Another.

He’ll leave after the next one if Crowley doesn’t show.

He probably won’t show.

Naturally, as is the way of the universe, the door opens right as Aziraphale thinks this.

Aziraphale doesn’t begin to understand how exactly Crowley commands as much space as he does while also appearing as nondescript as possible. Aziraphale supposes it must be due to the sex, some sort of leftover pheromone baptism that makes him salivate to the point of obsession at Crowley’s sauntering form. His hands are pushed deep into his jeans pockets, dark denim that’s an unfair combination of hanging loose and clutching tightly, in all the correct and incorrect places. He has another black wool jumper on, a turtleneck this time, and Aziraphale would be mad except it just leaves what’s covered to his imagination, and he does so enjoy imagining what exactly is hidden there underneath the rough-soft fabric (tight tendons tensed with pleasure, the soft-skinned hollow that Aziraphale has yet to taste).

(Yet?)

(Yet.)

Aziraphale hopes he looks friendly instead of ferociously turned on when Crowley finally makes eye contact.

The light becomes a little more golden when Crowley smiles, which is ridiculous, but who the hell cares at this point?

“You came!” Crowley sits down as he speaks, never taking his eyes off of Aziraphale as he waves to the barman, apparently some local signal for I’ll have my usual. It’s quaint, charmingly so, how seamlessly Crowley fits into the atmosphere, the pub a microcosm of Tadfield’s small-town culture. He’s at home here, and Aziraphale would never have guessed it.

“I changed my mind. Decided I was being a tad dramatic, leaving before I gave Tadfield the old college try," Aziraphale replies, repeating Crowley's own words back at him. _And I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you one last time,_ but he dare not say that aloud. Too much, too fast.

Crowley’s grin hasn’t left, and it grows a smidge brighter when there’s a pint placed in front of him. “Ta, Nina.” He still doesn’t look away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiles in thanks at the barman—Nina, apparently—instead, and she only rolls her eyes in Crowley’s direction before taking her place at the bar once again. “Are you drinking the wine? I’m so sorry. They’ve only got Blossom Hill here. I really would recommend the house brew over that swill.” “I’ll finish this, thank you.”

“You’re being polite. I can tell you hate it.”

“I’m the very essence of politeness.”

“Oh, sure. The grimace you give after each sip is perfunctory politeness.” Crowley grins and finally takes off his sunglasses. “I forget how uppity southerners are.”

“You live in South England, my dear.”

“Yeah, but m’not from here, am I?” Indeed, Aziraphale notices the northward glide of Crowley’s vowels, the harsh consonants. Last night, it was difficult to parse his origin beneath the tipsy slurring, but Aziraphale is paying attention now. “Born in Liverpool. I’ve lived here for upwards of twenty years, but I refused to lose my accent.”

“Very loyal of you.”

“Oi.” Crowley points an accusatory finger in Aziraphale's direction. "'S a good thing you're cute." Before Aziraphale can mentally process the compliment, Crowley is barrelling on, blushing slightly. “And what about you?” Crowley takes a first sip of what must surely, by this point, be his lukewarm beer. “You from London?”

“Born and raised, save for my time at uni. And a quick jaunt in America, the year before I got my masters.”

“I’m deeply sorry.”

Aziraphale laughs.

This is surprisingly easy, he thinks.

Crowley sips on his beer the same way he sipped whiskey the previous night: concurrently unsure but trying to appear competent. He won’t stop staring at Aziraphale while he does it. There’s a fetching blush that grows the longer they sit, the longer they talk, the longer they laugh.

“Do you _have_ a profession, or do you spend your time house cavorting around Tadfield?”

“Oi!” Crowley sputters. Aziraphale is on his second beer after Crowley convinced him it was better than the wine. He was right. He feels looser, smiles easily at Crowley’s objection to the statement. “I don’t appreciate the insinuations, mister...” Crowley trails off. “I don’t know your last name.”

Aziraphale giggles. “Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell?”

“The one and only.”

“You probably mean that literally, Jesus.”

They both laugh at that.

“I, uh, run a nursery." Crowley sounds nervous. "Kind of a nursery. I do arrangements for high-end events, pays the bills. Sell greens and herbs to Anathema, she dries ‘em and sells them in her shop. I own a suitable amount of houseplants that I rescue from terrible owners and rehome then. Just...plants. I work with plants.”

“Ah. Plant daddy,” Aziraphale supplies, even though he has no idea where the phrase came from.

Crowley’s eyes widen with something akin to nervousness before he snickers genuinely. “I hate that I just heard you say that.”

“I won’t say it again, don’t worry.”

It’s...easy. Surprisingly. Amazingly. Beautifully.

Aziraphale runs out of adverbs.

How to equivocate this? How does he reconcile how _well_ this is going in his head. This should be the part where it all goes sideways. This should be the part where Aziraphale reveals one detail too many and chases Crowley away. This should be the part where Crowley reveals a deal-breaker of a detail, an indication that everything is going wrong.

It should be going wrong, but as Aziraphale gets lost in conversation and Crowley's eyes, he finds that he's less and less concerned about this blowing up in his face.


	5. for now, for now, enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have... _never_...been so drunk in my entire life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you want it? [yeets chapter] go get it! [runs]

“I have... _never_...been so drunk in my entire life.”

Aziraphale woke up that morning late, sluggish and bleary-eyed. He was awake but his body couldn’t seem to keep up, and his eyes resisted the intrusion of light as he eventually opened them. He couldn’t quite believe the time on the clock as his body opposed awakening. 

Ten in the morning, the day nearly half gone.

Except...no, Aziraphale had been woken up previously. Or, at least, he had a dream-like memory of a kiss pressed to his temple and softly murmured words of “I’ll be downstairs” in his ear, which didn’t make any sense in hindsight. Aziraphale was vacationing alone, wasn’t he? He’d come to Tadfield--

At that, his eyes flew open. The previous night, what he could remember of it, came rushing back to him. The pub. The numerous drinks. Crowley’s laugh and his smile and the way his cheeks stayed permanently flushed.

Crowley.

_Oh, good Lord._

Aziraphale was dressed in last night’s clothes, he realized as he stumbled out of bed, and he kept them on as he rushed downstairs.

Crowley met Aziraphale’s wide-eyed frenzy with a calm smile and had only this to say in response.

“Yes, I think _no one_ has ever been that drunk.” 

Aziraphale, like an idiot, stared at Crowley dumbly. He was having trouble thinking thoughts past the obvious _good god you’re gorgeous_ and hyper-fixating on Crowley’s smirk as he took a self-satisfied sip from one of Anathema’s mugs.

“We...” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “You and I. Last night. We didn’t...” What an impression Aziraphale was leaving, surely. Stumbling over his words like a loon. This is what he got for sleeping in. In the back of his mind, Aziraphale knew he couldn’t blame the hour forever. 

Crowley’s smirk grew in insufferability. “No,” he answered astutely.

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied astutely. “Well, good.”

Crowley bit his lip, and that was a good reminder for Aziraphale: maybe think before speaking.

“Not ‘good,’ my apologies. That came out very wrong. I just meant...good.”

Crowley finally did laugh, the sound exploding out of him like he’d been keeping it inside for longer than this disaster of a conversation had lasted. 

“Should I be offended? I didn’t realize I was that terrible of a shag.”

“You’re not!” Aziraphale answered, probably too quickly. The disaster just kept increasing in velocity and damage. “You’re very adept at...sex.” 

“That’s a Tinder bio if I’ve ever heard one. ‘Adept at sex.’ Can I quote you on that?”

“No comment,” Aziraphale quipped back instantly.

“I’m surprised you even know what Tinder _is_ , if ’m being honest.”

“I’m not that technologically ignorant. I keep a desktop at my shop to find deals on the internet.”

“Flip phone,” Crowley returned quickly, and barreled on before Aziraphale could quip back. “I got you tea by the way. Twinings. There’s only one shop open this close to Christmas, so it's a bit shite. Otherwise, I would have gotten you some bougie loose leaf with cornflowers or some shit.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“No, but I did, actually. It looked like pulling teeth, you drinking coffee yesterday. Anathema is painfully American, I’m sorry to say. Doesn’t matter that she’s lived here for ten years, she refuses to drink anything else except some hippie coffee she imports in from the ass-end of the world.”

“From the little I’ve spoken with her on the phone, she sounds like quite the character.”

“That’s one way to put it. She puts up with me, I put up with her. It’s a mutually beneficial friendship.”

Aziraphale boiled water in a saucepan and prepared his tea in the most rudimentary method possible, for lack of the appropriate tools. Crowley chuckled good-naturedly as Aziraphale kept discovering a horrid lack of tea implements: kettles, proper cups, correct stirring spoons. Eventually, there was tea in a mug and Aziraphale situated at a table in an attempt to savor it. 

They sat in silence. It should have been awkward or tense; Aziraphale was well-versed in both flavors of silence. The home of his youth was devoid and devout in equal measure, meals spent in such stark lack of sound and full of tension. But there are silences that are easy, and sitting at a stranger’s kitchen table in the late-morning light, surreptitiously watching Crowley’s absentminded tongue lick a drop of coffee from his hand, was comfortable if a little charged.

“Why did you stay?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, unaware he was going to speak until he did. The question had been weighing on him, though. He and Crowley had a nice time the previous night, but the reason Crowley was still here in the morning was lost to him.

Crowley shrugged. “Because you asked me to.” 

That was not the answer Aziraphale expected, and he stops himself from spluttering embarrassedly by the nearest margin. He didn’t at all recall asking last night for Crowley to stay, shuddered to think of how simpering he must have sounded when begging Crowley not to leave.

Crowley didn’t notice Aziraphale’s mortification and instead continued to talk. “It was really sweet actually. Did you know you get very cuddly when you’re drunk? Anyway, I got you inside and you told—no, you ordered me to sit on the couch. Then you got me a glass of water and insisted I had to sober up before I left. And then we cuddled on the sofa, mainly because you wouldn’t let me off of it. I got you into bed only by promising I’d stay. And I might be an ass, but I’m not about to go breaking promises to gorgeous men.”

Through this mortifying tale, Aziraphale had slumped further and further table-ward until burrowed in the safety of his arms, away from Crowley’s smile and bright eyes. “That is...exceedingly mortifying.”

“Nah, ’was cute.”

“I could hardly consider that a compliment.”

Crowley twirled his empty mug on the tables, spinning it in precarious circles as his spindly fingers kept an after-thought control. Aziraphale, too, felt close to toppling over, so uneven was his footing. It didn’t matter if he was sitting down, and it didn’t matter that the past two days had been a wonderful dream. It was surely about to end.

“Consider this,” Crowley said suddenly. He opened his mouth to continue but was interrupted by the table vibrating. Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s phone before he could stop himself.

Adam. Same name as yesterday, calling again.

Crowley sighed. “One mo’, hold that thought for me,” and he stepped outside with only his phone and his boots shoved hurriedly onto his feet.

The table had a fortunate vantage point of the garden and Crowley pacing in it. He was smiling and laughing at whoever was on the phone. Every few moments Crowley would jump up and down in a supposed attempt to not freeze. Aziraphale should have insisted Crowley wear a coat at least.

The neuroses over who, exactly, Adam was threatened to overtake his sensibilities again, but Crowley returned before those thoughts could prove overwhelming. He was still grinning, but it was beautified by cheeks reddened from the cold and eyes brightened from the sun on snow. “Proposition for you,” Crowley said apropos. “You, me, larking about Tadfield. I’ll show you the sights, the most important stops, the good food, the works. If you’re spending Christmas here you should get acquainted with the area. What do you say?”

Aziraphale shut down all instincts that might have argued this was a terrible idea, and returned Crowley’s smile instead. “That sounds absolutely lovely, dear boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey, chapter count went up lololol. date day next chapter!


End file.
